


we fed on beauty

by ursahelianthus



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: An Overnight Stay, Bunker Fam Getting Along, Emma is Awful, F/M, Fluff, Flynn Smiles, Light Angst, Lucy Histories the Situation, Philadelphia Before The Cheesesteak, Plot with Potatoes, Quakers Before The Oatmeal, Rufus is Back, The Missions Continue, mention of the sleeper agent's suicide, you read that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-06-29 11:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ursahelianthus/pseuds/ursahelianthus
Summary: Yellow Fever Epidemic, Philadelphia 1793“So what you’re saying is that all the good guys are gathering in one place for Rittenhouse to shoot like fish in a barrel,” Rufus summarizes helpfully.“Pretty much.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the last stanza of the poem _Transit_ by Rita Dove.
> 
>  
> 
> _while in the midst of horror_  
>  _we fed on beauty—and that,_  
>  _my love, is what sustained us._

“September 21st, 1793, Philadelphia!” Jiya calls out over the sound of the alarms. 

“No way!” Lucy exclaims from the kitchen. “Yellow Fever Epidemic, I was just reading about this!” A flurry of papers falls off her desk as she scrambles to find a book amongst the haphazard stacks. 

Flynn looks on from his adjacent desk as Rufus turns from the console to fix her with an incredulous look. “I’m sorry, are you…excited about going to an epidemic?” 

“No, no. The epidemic was pretty grim, although I think we’re going for a Quaker meeting. It’s just that I finally got one right!” She raises the book in triumph like it’s baby Simba, beaming at the bricklike tome on the early history of Philadelphia.

Wyatt high-fives her as he jogs in, followed by Denise and Mason. “Nice work, Professor.”

“Yeah, congratulations, Lucy, but the epidemic?” Rufus sounds worried.

“Right. In 1793, Philadelphia was the capital of the United States, and at around 50,000 residents, it was the largest city in the country. Yellow fever breaks out in August, and instead of killing the children and the elderly, it seems to hit young, fit people hardest. September 21st puts us nearly at the height of the scare; almost 20,000 people have fled the city, including George Washington – now in his second term – and most of Congress, who are on recess anyway. Anyone left is pretty much trapped by roadblocks, quarantines, and patrols.” 

“Hold on,” Denise cuts in. “If it’s yellow fever, we have to make a run for supplies. Connor, take the car. Make a list. Bug repellent with DEET and mosquito nets at the very least. We’ll lose an hour or so, but I won’t have anyone dying of a bug bite.”

“There isn’t a cure?” Mason asks, pulling on his coat and looking rather thrilled at a chance to escape the bunker, even if it is to buy anti-death supplies for the team. 

It’s Flynn who answers, face grave, as he gets up from his table. “Yellow Fever is a virus, so antibiotics don’t work. Until the early 1900s, doctors recommended bloodletting as a treatment. Even now we can only manage the symptoms and hope for the best. Honestly, living in this bunker and running ourselves ragged, our immune systems probably aren’t up to the challenge.” 

Lucy nods, solemn now. “The epidemic only ends in November, when frost kills the mosquitoes that carry the virus. By then, over five thousand are already dead.” 

Mason’s eyes widen. “Right then. Need anything else?” 

“Lemon eucalyptus oil has been shown to repel mosquitoes,” Jiya pipes up. “Might be more agreeable to folks in 1793. And Permethrin is the stuff they use to treat clothes and camping gear nowadays. It comes in a spray.”

“Got it,” Mason says, dictating the list to his phone. “Be as quick as I can!”

“Thank you!” Lucy calls after him. 

The bunker door slams shut, and there’s a bit of a silence. No one’s used to waiting after an alarm. The travelers go to gather what they need and pull on sensible shoes. Their only effective strategy now is to pinpoint what Rittenhouse wants to change with far more speed and accuracy than previously required. Emma’s an engineer, and considerably more subtle in her machinations than Nicholas ever was. There had been a couple missions where they’d followed the chatter and stood guard near the most likely target, only to jump home hours later, puzzled that there had been no apparent sleeper activity. Certainly nothing so obvious as an assassination attempt. 

Lucy therefore spends most of her time studying, poring over the American history texts she used to know so well, trying to spot the timeline changes and predict pressure points Emma will hit next. But PhD or not, she only knows so much of the original timeline, and almost anything could have changed without them ever finding out. She aches to think of what’s been lost already. 

Flynn, an amateur historian in his own right, announced one day that he would focus on international events with direct ties to the US. He grew up in Croatia, fought in half a dozen revolutions across Eastern Europe, and is an ex-NSA analyst, after all. He keeps them both supplied with hot tea and sweaters, and even made coffee as a peace offering when Wyatt finally quit his angry brooding and buckled down to brush up on America’s vast and complicated military history. All the meddling in wars sure was coming back to bite them. It’s slow going and only semi-successful, not in the least because Emma is, by definition, an unpredictable sociopath on a power trip in the middle of reorganizing an evil cult. There’s just, well, a _lot_ of history. And it’s clear that Emma is only getting started.

While Wyatt, Lucy, and Flynn are in the trenches, Rufus and Jiya have been trying to cajole the universe into revealing the precise location of the Mothership. If they can find it, they can destroy it and finally end this war. Rufus returned from the dead highly motivated to permanently stop Rittenhouse, and a fifty-mile radius isn’t near good enough anymore. Whatever the two of them do involves a lot of math and hunching over computer screens, but they don’t seem to mind if they stay within a few feet of each other. Jiya constantly touches him, barely lets him out of her sight. Their bulletproof joy is sometimes the only bright spot in the bunker, even as they slog through miles of code and navigate getting to know each other again. What was a day and a stint in the afterlife for him was three and a half years for her. 

Mason checks their equations from time to time, but mostly works on upgrading the Lifeboat itself, following blueprints that Future Lucy and Bearded Wyatt left for them. Merely Scruffy Wyatt is a competent enough mechanic to help, and Denise proves surprisingly capable as well, pitching in when she’s not off doing Official Homeland Security Things. 

Presently, Wyatt is pacing the kitchen, shrugging on his harness and checking his weapon for the third time. He looks up as Lucy walks in with a few more books under her arm. “So, Lucy, care to fill us in on the rest?”

“Story time!” Jiya crows as everyone gathers again. “I love when you give us the cliffs notes. We never get to hang out like this!”

“We’re usually a little busy,” Flynn says dryly, checking and holstering his own gun before taking his seat again. 

Lucy gives him a playful shove for that and settles in next to him with her half-finished cup of tea. “Best I can figure is that they’re targeting the Yearly Meeting of the Society of Friends. The Quakers were headquartered in Philadelphia, and a hundred members, mostly delegates from outside the city, came to participate. It was just about the only major event that month that wasn’t related to the outbreak.” 

Flynn hums, stretching out and propping up his long legs on the opposite chair. “Quakers – so it’s not necessarily political, then. And you said there were no congressmen in the capital to begin with?”

“Wait, Quakers?” Wyatt frowns. “The Christian denomination that’s literally known for being conscientious objectors in every war since the mid-1600s?” 

“That’s right, Rittenhouse is now gunning for pacifists.”

Lucy rolls her eyes. “It’s not just that. The people who are coming to this meeting – they’re the founders of the world’s first abolitionist organization, societies that helped women and orphans, and a bunch of schools that educated girls and people of color. They were early advocates for prison reform and proper care for the mentally ill. In three years, they’re supposed to establish a committee to mediate between the government and the First Peoples. Quakers are basically the first organized humanitarians in the country, and probably the biggest moral influence for the next century. Washington himself wrote that ‘there is no denomination among us who are more exemplary and useful citizens.’ William Penn will definitely be there, and he founded _Pennsylvania_.” 

“So what you’re saying is that all the good guys are gathering in one place for Rittenhouse to shoot like fish in a barrel,” Rufus summarizes helpfully.

“Pretty much.”

“They won’t have to shoot,” Flynn says. “They need only release a few extra mosquitoes, and the congregation is dead. It would be silent, untraceable, not even a crime scene. Nothing to tip their hand.”

Wyatt stops pacing and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I almost prefer the bullets.” 

Denise shoots him a disapproving look.

“Well how are we supposed to stop a mosquito? The Quakers might be the good guys, but what kind of idiots hold a summit in the middle of a viral epidemic?” 

Lucy tugs on the string of her teabag. “They thought rescheduling would be like trying to avoid the will of God. For better or worse they stood their ground; in our timeline they mostly made it out okay.” 

“Well then,” Flynn says, “let’s just go to the meeting and-” 

The bunker door bangs open and a slightly breathless Mason dashes in. “I’m back!” He runs into the edge of the counter. “Ow, bloody hell.” 

Denise lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Okay guys, saddle up. And take care.”

They take the supplies from Mason and pile into the Lifeboat. Rufus kisses Jiya goodbye before taking the pilot’s chair, and they’re off.

###### 

The Lifeboat lands just north of Philadelphia, in a copse of trees that are just beginning to lose their leaves. It’s not ideal cover, but the location seems secluded enough, and the nearest structure they can see is a small barn about two miles away. The sun is shining warmly from the east, and the breeze is sweet and heavy with the last of the summer’s humidity. Peaceful green farmland dotted with pastures stretches out in front of them, fall crops lush and nearly ready for harvest.

“Hard to believe we’re walking into an epidemic,” Rufus says, squinting to see the Delaware River and Philadelphia in the distance. “Sure we can’t just hang out here?”

Wyatt rounds the Lifeboat, perimeter check complete. “Not this time. They’ve got something major planned.”

“How do you know?”

“Think about it,” Wyatt says as they set out toward the city, supplies in a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. “It’s a big risk to send an agent into an epidemic to activate sleepers who could already be dead of fever or could die before their tasks are done. Outcomes are unpredictable in a crisis like this. There are too many variables, not to mention they might bring yellow fever to the present. There must be an even bigger reward, more than just this meeting.”

Flynn grunts thoughtfully. “Setting back social activism is good and well, but I did rather think Emma would be more proactive in her plans for world domination. Lucy, any ideas?” 

Lucy shakes her head, but at least her research is fresh in her mind. Maybe if she rambles for a bit, something will shake out. “The country is young, and the city – the capital – is vulnerable. Federal and state governments cut their sessions short only a couple weeks ago. Philly is a key port, now under partial quarantine, a major economic blow since fall goods from Britain should be increasing. People are scared. Breadwinners and members of the workforce are dying, and no one will take in the widows and orphans. Refugees are being blamed. Churches continue to hold services, though they’re being told to stop tolling the bells and to only arrange private funerals. The mayor, Matthew Clarkson, is organizing the city’s response. There’s a makeshift hospital a couple of miles away, but the mortality rate there is over fifty percent.” 

Rufus rubs a hand over his mouth. “This is sub-ideal on a number of levels.”

“There’s an upside for you this time, Rufus. A Dr. Benjamin Rush though that black people had natural immunity to yellow fever, and reached out to freedmen to aid as nurses and in burial crews. It isn’t true of course, and they ended up dying in equal rates and mostly working without compensation, but at least you won’t have to pose as a slave this time?” Lucy trails off. That sounded better in her head.

“Thanks, I think.” 

Flynn pats him consolingly on the shoulder. 

They’re mulling the situation over when they come to a modest estate with laundry line-drying in the sun. 

“Steal pants and long sleeves,” Lucy commands, handing Flynn the largest shirt she can see. “Cover up as much as you can, use the bugspray, and don’t forget to reapply.”

“Yes, dear,” Flynn says, taking the waistcoat and suit that appear to go with the shirt. 

Wyatt hands over the only set of stays on the line, along with a thankfully simple-looking petticoat and outer gown, and Rufus finds some working-class uniforms and a leather satchel that should let them blend right in.

It’s high noon by the time they’re dressed and entering the city. The gutters and open sewers are prime breeding ground for mosquitoes, the stench is incredible, and there seem to be unidentifiable animal parts sticking out of many of the dark brown puddles. 

“Ew,” Rufus groans. And that about sums it up.

The streets are nearly deserted, so they split up to cover more ground, agreeing to reconvene in two hours. Lucy and Flynn are going to hang around the meeting posing as a respectable Quaker couple, and Wyatt and Rufus head for the docks, still the center of operations in the city despite the quarantine. Walking in pairs make them less conspicuous as well, though no one dares make eye contact anyway, staying far from strangers and friends alike lest they catch the fever. It’s a slim silver lining. On the many, many downsides, Rittenhouse knows exactly what they look like, there are special orders to shoot Lucy on sight, and the agents have taken to reporting them as criminals to local law enforcement at the earliest opportunity. On top of that, Emma is now rotating agents, so the team never sees the same one twice anymore. It’s making their searches about as fruitful as looking for a needle in a needlestack. 

Arm in arm, Lucy and Flynn make circuits of the area, looking for anything out of place. About an hour in Lucy’s stomach growls, and she’s planning to ignore it, but Flynn pauses. “Hungry?”

“It’s fine,” Lucy says, tugging on his arm.

Flynn stands unmoved and grins. “How bout I treat you to lunch?” 

“With what money?” 

With a flourish and a bow, Flynn produces a leather wallet he evidently pickpocketed from some unlucky gentleman they passed on the street. “Milady.”

“Flynn, you shouldn’t have,” She deadpans, leaving it open to interpretation whether she meant it in appreciation or admonishment. How on earth he did that without her noticing is just a testament to his skill, she supposes. Maybe he learned something from Houdini after all. 

Lucy acquiesces with a wry smile and lets him lead her to one of the few open restaurants. They might be on a mission, but they do have to eat, and she is long past feeling guilty for stealing what they need on missions. 

They have a short lunch and case the meetinghouse, but find nothing before the two hours are up. It’s pure luck that they hear someone up ahead speaking in a modern Brooklyn accent, asking for directions to the Yearly Meeting. He’s dressed in an embroidered suit that marks him a member of the upper class and has apparently grown period-appropriate sideburns and a mustache to match. 

Lucy and Flynn are professionals, so she just grips his arm harder as they continue strolling casually, turning toward each other to hide their faces. Flynn bends down as if to whisper in her ear, and they must pull it off well enough, because they’re not immediately shot in the back as they pass. 

Wyatt and Rufus are waiting when they turn the last corner. Lucy waves them over. “Guys! We found the agent. Come on, we’ll explain on the way.”

“We overheard someone asking in modern English for directions to the Quakers’ Yearly Meeting,” Flynn says as they walk. “We got a good look at him - magnificent sideburns by the way - so we can follow him to the sleepers he needs to activate. He mentioned trying to find a John Todd Jr.” 

“John Todd.” Wyatt says.

Lucy shrugs. “That’s the thing. He’s the only Quaker to attend the meeting and die of yellow fever afterwards. He contracted it when he stayed in the city to care for his parents, who were both also sick. The only notable thing about him is that his wife, Dolley Payne, went on to marry James Madison less than a year later.”

“Nothing says grieving widow quite like marrying the fourth president of the United States,” Wyatt drawls.

“Don’t forget he also wrote the Bill of Rights,” Rufus adds.

“Well, he’s only a congressman now,” Lucy says, “and about twenty years older and five inches shorter than Payne, too. The records don’t say why they got together.”

Wyatt wrinkles his nose. “Who in this triangle do we think is the sleeper then? Dead Quaker, his wife, or James Madison?” 

“What if the sleeper is supposed to kill one of them?” Rufus says. “Or…save John Todd?”

“I’d put my money on the sleeper killing the wife and marrying Madison instead,” Flynn says, but then he frowns. “Although she wouldn’t necessarily need to use this epidemic to do it. So why is the agent activating someone now? Today?” 

“It’s got to be the Yearly Meeting,” Lucy says. “But maybe Wyatt’s original idea is right. If something big is going down, there’ll be a lot of moving parts. They use yellow fever to take out the Quakers and Dolley Payne, who was sick but recovered in the original timeline. The good guys are dead, the abolitionist movement isn’t started, and there’s an opening for a Rittenhouse first lady.” She’s warming to the theory, though she feels a familiar cold pit opening in her stomach. “If Emma is ambitious enough to go after the presidency, I’ll bet she’s also going to take advantage of the fact that the president’s mansion is practically standing empty right now.” 

Flynn nods, grimacing, but picks up her line of thinking. “She’ll activate sleepers in the household or send them there while Washington is away. Might even go after Congress, and the Supreme Court meets here in Philly too, don’t they? People are dying left and right; it would be easy for an aide to disappear and be replaced by a Rittenhouse agent who could work their way up the ranks, spread their influence in all three branches of government right from the start.”

“It’s only been thirteen years since we, ah, met David Rittenhouse,” Lucy says quietly, expression tight. 

“Ah,” Flynn says cautiously. “So some of the original members are probably still alive. They won’t be loyal to Emma, but they’re most likely already powerful and well-connected like Benedict Arnold was.” 

There’s a lull as the team digests this information and the enormity of the mess they once again find themselves in. 

Flynn flicks Lucy an apologetic glance from under his eyelashes. They have never talked about the 1780 mission. About their deadly confrontation with David Rittenhouse, Lucy’s defense of young John, the desperate appeals she made to Flynn’s humanity. How she inadvertently saved her own life and maybe his soul, not to mention the subsequent kidnapping. It’s a slippery slope.

She closes her eyes and takes a fortifying breath, willing herself not to go down that rabbit hole right now. When she opens her eyes, Flynn is watching her worriedly, like he’s followed this line of thought too and is afraid she’s finally come to her senses and remembered how horrible he is. She gives a minute shake of her head – _not now_ – but reaches out to catch his hand and lets her eyes soften in genuine affection. Is he still so unsure of her? She hasn’t said it in so many words, but she knew what she was getting into. She loves him as he is, darkness and demons and all. Anything he might have done to wrong her in the past has long been forgiven. 

His eyes widen slightly as they always do, like he’s received an undeserved blessing, and he squeezes her hand hard before letting go. 

They arrive at the meetinghouse and decide that Flynn and Lucy will tail the agent they saw earlier while Wyatt and Rufus keep an eye on the proceedings. Rufus has been applying his considerable brainpower to the task of mosquito-proofing the building and has come up with a few ideas. He starts by dumping any standing water within the block, and sends Wyatt out for garlic, which repels mosquitoes, which are basically tiny vampires. Go figure. He’s mumbling calculations for some kind of spray rig for their modern repellents as Lucy and Flynn leave to find their agent again. 

They spot him just a couple of blocks over, disappearing into what looks to be the house of an extravagantly wealthy family, which is suspicious because everyone who has the means to escape the city and the epidemic already has. Only the middle class, the working poor, slaves, and a handful of doctors remain. 

Flynn reluctantly agrees to a stakeout, conceding that it is a little early in the game to shoot the only person who knows what the sleepers look like. As it turns out, they don’t have to wait long. The agent emerges just a few minutes later with a valise in hand, followed by a stunning woman in the largest and most elaborate dress Lucy has ever seen. 

Flynn scoffs. “She’ll be the one replacing Dolley Payne, then.”

“Uh-huh.”

He blows out a breath, steeling himself. “Let’s get this over with.” 

Despite ample evidence to the contrary, he doesn’t enjoy killing, and certainly not in cold blood. The bodies have a way of stacking up in his nightmares. But there’s inevitably either a fistfight or a gunfight when they confront a Rittenhouse member, and they all have the scars to show for it now. They’ve captured two more sleepers since the one Wyatt got on the Reagan/Christopher mission, but one was killed in an escape attempt and the other, disturbingly, also died by suicide. Their interrogations yielded frustratingly little – assignments were compartmentalized, and they seemed to either be true believers or frightened victims, just like that first pair of brothers. This woman planning on marrying Madison and spending the rest of her life here for Rittenhouse probably falls in the fanatic category, though that won’t make it easier to end her life. 

The agent hands her into a horsedrawn carriage, which Flynn and Lucy rush to intercept at the edge of the city. They intend to try and talk to her since she might know who the contemporary Rittenhouse members are, but she pulls a gun on Lucy the moment she sees her. Flynn is quicker on the draw. It’s over in a flash, and Flynn’s shaking a little as he pulls Lucy in for a bruising hug. 

“Let’s just kill that agent and get the hell out of here,” Flynn growls. 

Lucy gulps down a few more breaths as her lungs resume working. She presses her forehead into the crook of his neck and works an arm free to reach up and anchor herself to him. Entertains a fantasy in which they have someplace truly safe to go. 

Alas. “It’s not over yet,” she says gently, smoothing down his hair. 

They both know their work here isn’t done, but moments like these make her heart catch in her throat. It’s become clear that her safety ranks above the mission in Flynn’s mind; he is far from the heartless killer they once thought him to be. One thing Lucy hadn’t thought to expect when she and Flynn started growing closer was that his protective instinct would override every other impulse, even his need to eliminate Rittenhouse and avenge his family. He hasn’t forgotten them, but he doesn’t do anything halfway, and the fierceness of his devotion to her is overwhelming. 

She tightens her arms around him and then pulls back to catch his eye. Flynn is coming down from that spike of adrenaline, but she can see his nerves are shot, and it rattles her to see him rattled. They live with so much danger and the stakes are always so high, it was bound to catch up with them eventually. Throw in a price on Lucy’s head and the omnipresent threat of yellow fever, and the whole team is brittle with exhaustion and fear. 

“Lucy,” he whispers. 

“Garcia,” she answers, allowing them just a moment more. 

Then there’s nothing for it but to soldier on, and Flynn checks the sleeper’s body while Lucy goes through her bag. Sewn into the lining of the valise is a piece of parchment with three addresses and no names, each location more than a day’s travel from Philadelphia. Flynn sighs and pockets the scrap, offers Lucy his arm, and they’re once again heading to the meetinghouse.

###### 

When they arrive, Rufus and Wyatt are sitting tiredly on a park bench, keeping an eye on the building. It’s evening, the temperature is dropping, and stormclouds are slowly rolling in from the west. The meeting is breaking up, and their sideburned agent is dead. 

Flynn throws up his arms. “My god, Logan, can’t take you anywhere.”

“He shot Rufus!” Wyatt says defensively.

Lucy panics at once. “ _What!?_ Oh god, oh my god, are you okay? We have to get you back-”

Rufus jumps up and grabs her by the arms. “Lucy! Hey! I’m fine. Barely a graze. Didn’t even bleed.”

“A graze,” she says skeptically. She loves her boys, but they have an idiotic tendency to downplay their injuries. In the aftermath of Chinatown, it took Lucy, Denise, and Future Lucy to persuade (coerce) Flynn to see a doctor for his gunshot wound, even as he was going pale from blood loss. 

“Wyatt patched me up,” Rufus says reassuringly.

“I thought it didn’t even bleed,” Lucy retorts.

“I’ve had worse,” Rufus says, actually having the gall to look a little proud. Lucy glares. “Too soon?”

Wyatt chuckles and Flynn smirks. Lucy huffs, but can’t hold back a smile. “Fine, but we better finish this mission soon. Who knows what kind of germs are colonizing your arm right now.” 

“Party pooper.”

“This is not my idea of a party.”

“O-kay,” Wyatt says, getting up from the bench. “Let’s take this not-party inside. We can reassess and come up with a new plan. Sunset’s in less than an hour, and Jiya said the storm is gonna be a big one.” 

Rufus turns to him, surprised. “Jiya had a vision about the weather?” 

“No, I asked her to Google it,” Wyatt says, a little smug. “Even time travelers should check the weather. Records show this was a particularly wet season. Lots of rain means lots of standing water means lots of mosquitoes, so we should head inland away from the river if we want to find somewhere less mosquito-infested to sleep.” 

“Not bad, Logan,” Flynn says. “Let’s head back out to the farmland. It’ll be more isolated, and if so many people have fled the city, there should be an empty house we can use for the night.”

“Small one would be best; easier to secure and fewer people who might come knocking.”

“Agreed. There might even be food if we’re lucky.”

Wyatt and Flynn nod at each other. They’re not quite friends, but as the soldiers of the group they’ve developed an efficient working relationship that’s about fifty percent snark and fifty percent strategizing. The whole team had been forced to pull together in their effort to save Rufus, but in the wake of Jessica’s betrayal, Rufus’ death, Wyatt’s confessions, the future Lifeboat’s visit, and a rushed move to a new bunker, the hostility between Flynn and Wyatt had become suffocating. Lucy had taken it upon herself to all but lock the two of them in a room with a bottle of scotch and orders to negotiate a ceasefire. An hour later they'd emerged a little worse for wear, voices hoarse from yelling, truce in effect. Things had improved since Rufus’ rescue, and now they were walking companionably ahead, discussing further safehouse criteria and debating the necessity of a night watch.

Lucy bluffs their way through a roadblock without much trouble, claiming them to be doctors and nurses on their way to the makeshift hospital at the Bush Hill Estate. A few steps farther and they find themselves at the edge of a wheat field, glowing in the light of the golden hour. It’s a blessed relief to be in the countryside, and the healthy crop in front of them bodes well for their chances of harvesting some dinner. 

They pick up the pace as the sun dips lower, mindful of their lack of flashlights, lanterns, torches, and foresight. It’s nothing too strenuous, just a steady trot that eats up the miles as they look for a suitable shelter. Lucy keeps pace beside Rufus, reflecting on how far they’ve come since he was rescued. The civilians in their group are training under a modified army regimen, supervised by Wyatt, who has been through variations many times before. Lucy’s physical strength and stamina are the best they’ve ever been, and Flynn is teaching her the basics of self-defense and marksmanship. Becoming Lucy Croft doesn’t seem like such an implausible future anymore, although she wonders what event will inspire the haircut. 

The atmospheric pressure falls as the storm bears down on them, and the hairs on the back of her neck actually stand on end from the static in the air. A promising farmstead with a cottage comes into view as they crest the next hill, and Flynn and Wyatt run ahead to check it out. Flynn shouts an all-clear just as the sun sets, and the temperature drops another couple of degrees. Wyatt is already starting a fire when they get inside, and Rufus goes to find something to cook with. Flynn grabs a basket and heads back out, calling over his shoulder that he’s going to pick some things from the garden before the light fades completely. 

Lucy pokes around a little, looking for blankets and candles, taking in the unpretentious architecture. It’s a traditional Germanic folk house, stone construction, following the common three-room format with a larger kitchen on one side of a central chimney and a smaller bedroom and parlor on the other. A functional table and three chairs stand in one corner of the kitchen, and shutters are fitted to the small windows. There’s one bed where probably the entire family sleeps, and the parlor contains a desk, two more chairs, and some wooden cabinets. 

Lucy nearly breaks her neck falling down a short but steep set of stairs that are cut into the earth below and ends up sprawled on the floor of a proper root cellar. Jackpot. 

“Lucy? Heard a crash, you okay?” Wyatt’s voice sounds close overhead.

“Wyatt! Down here! Can you grab a candle from the rightmost cabinet there?”

A minute later, Wyatt and Rufus appear at the entrance of the basement, two candles casting flickering shadows over their amused faces. 

“Yeah, yeah, just get down here so we can see if there’s anything to eat.” 

Rufus hands his candle down to Lucy before coming down the stairs, Wyatt following behind him. Lucy turns and holds up the candle, and hundreds of jars reflect the tiny flame. 

“Whoa,” Wyatt breathes, bringing his candle closer to what looks like a jar of sauerkraut. “Look, they’ve been putting up since the spring. There’s sauerkraut, pickles, carrots, even tomato sauce and jams.”

“Ooh, potatoes!” Rufus holds up a very handsome spud from a stack of crates in the corner.

“Hey, over here,” Lucy’s crouching on the far side of the cellar. “There’s a stream. They must have built their house over a spring so they’d have running water.” 

“Is it safe to drink?” Rufus asks.

“Was there a pot in the kitchen?” Wyatt says. “Boiling water over a fire takes forever, but that’s the best we can do. Plus, it didn’t make this family sick, and it’s before people used chemicals on their farms.”

Rufus nods and goes to the kitchen for a pot, and Lucy wanders over to the wall of canned vegetables. “Maybe we shouldn’t eat these,” she says. “This family is counting on having enough for the winter, and they’ve already had to abandon their current garden.”

Wyatt smiles at her. Always thinking of others. “Okay, Luce, let’s see what Flynn finds, and we’ll take from here only if it’s not enough.”

Rufus procures two pots and a washbasin, and they’re filling them at the spring when they hear Flynn cursing upstairs. “Lucy! Guys?! Jesus, I leave for two minutes and-” 

“Flynn!” Lucy calls, breathless with laughter. The boys aren’t much better, doubled over near the small stream. It’s really not that funny, but it’s been a long, long day. 

Flynn appears above them, staring balefully down at the trio, which only makes them laugh harder. “I’m going gray because of you,” he says.

“You’re going gray anyway, old man,” Wyatt replies cheerfully. “Come and help us bring this water upstairs.”

They lug the pots to the kitchen and find a veritable cornucopia waiting for them. Flynn has filled his basket to the brim with beans, carrots, onions, winter squash, leafy greens he swears will be less bitter after they’re cooked, and even herbs. Thyme, by the look of it – Lucy laughs and Flynn winks at her, tucking a single pink flower into her hair and looking exceptionally pleased with himself. Wyatt’s stomach rumbles loudly, followed by a significantly louder rumble of thunder. The wind picks up outside, and there’s a collective sigh of relief (and disbelief) that they’ve found this cozy refuge. Nothing ever goes this well. 

They wash up and Flynn directs the chopping and dicing as Wyatt sets the water to boil. Before long they’re sitting in front of the fire, happily munching on the freshest string beans they’ve ever eaten and waiting on their simple stew. No one mentions Rittenhouse, and they allow themselves the temporary illusion of an ordinary family meal.

To everyone’s surprise, Flynn voluntarily answers the question hanging in the room, sharing a story about how he worked on farms in exchange for food during his early years as a soldier. He was young, growing, and always hungry the way teenage boys are. There was a lot of down time between skirmishes, and often the revolutionaries and guerilla forces weren’t wealthy or organized enough to feed them. Winters were particularly rough. With impeccable dramatic timing, lightning and thunder crack almost simultaneously overhead. All at once monsoon-level rain is pounding down and lashing against the windows. The noise is incredible. 

Flynn serenely stirs the pot. “Peasant food,” he says fondly. “It’ll be the best soup you’ve ever eaten.”

Sure enough, a heavenly smell starts to taunt their empty stomachs, but Chef Flynn makes them wait a few more minutes. “Patience is a virtue,” he informs them. Wyatt rolls his eyes and Rufus gets up to find bowls and spoons anyways. 

When Rufus returns, Flynn takes the dishes from him. “Allow me.” They forgo the table in favor of continuing their fireside picnic, and Flynn ladles healthy portions into each bowl, serving Lucy first, then Wyatt and Rufus, and finally himself. Lucy watches as he comes to sit close beside her, oddly touched by this act of provisioning. The others murmur their thanks and tuck in. 

The stew is mind-blowingly delicious as promised, and everyone is well into their second helping by the time they recover the ability to speak. 

“You didn’t tell us you were some kind of vegetable wizard,” Rufus says reproachfully. “We’ve been living on mediocre bunker food for more than a year!”

Flynn bows his head in exaggerated acknowledgment. “Thank you, Rufus, but it’s not my magic. We’re in a time before industrial agriculture made vegetables durable and flavorless – you’re just eating real food. Probably for the first time, if your diet of coffee and chocodiles is anything to go by.”

“I am honestly feeling so attacked right now,” Rufus says, straight-faced.

“Another illusion shattered.” Wyatt shakes his head in mock-disappointment.

“You’re definitely taking over dinner duty when we get back,” Lucy concludes.

By the time they finish eating, the second pot of water has come to a boil. Flynn carefully pours most of it into another basin to cool, and Lucy pulls out her knife and cuts a few strips of fabric from her petticoat to boil in the remaining water. Rufus takes off his shirt and the field dressing on his left arm, and lets Wyatt clean the gunshot wound, declining stiches. Lucy’s beyond grateful to see that it is in fact just a graze, but it’ll be a miracle if it doesn’t get infected. As Wyatt puts on the new dressing, Lucy helps Flynn hang their modern mosquito nets. The two of them will take the bed, and they make a pallet in the parlor near the central chimney for Wyatt and Rufus. 

Warm, full, and only minimally damaged, the team pulls chairs to the table and returns to the task at hand. They don’t often stay overnight on missions anymore, what with Emma preferring rapid surgical strikes, and are now in the unusual position of needing to come up with a plan for the next day. Given the demise of the agent and sleeper, they are low on leads. The rain pours down in sheets, drumming loudly against the roof as the storm unfurls. Lucy pours four cups of hot water in lieu of tea, and they stare into their cups as if willing the answer to appear at the bottom.

“So,” Wyatt begins wearily, when the staring doesn’t work, “we think there are one or more sleepers out there that the agent may or may not have activated.” 

Nods all around. Flynn pulls out the parchment with the three addresses. “Lucy and I found this on the sleeper, a woman whom we suspect was going to kill Dolley Payne and marry James Madison. No names, and too far from here for this mission, but it does point to a larger conspiracy.”

Rufus takes the list. “These should be easy to look up, and it’s better intel than we’ve had in months, but it doesn’t solve our current problem. The real Dolly Payne is safe, and Wyatt and I didn’t see anything suspicious at the Quaker meeting before we had to shoot that agent, so that leaves the president’s house. If we think that’s still a target. And if we think that’s it for this mission. There could be more. Aw, jeez.” 

“Congress and the Supreme Court could also be targets, but if I had to pick, I’d say the presidency,” Lucy says. “There’s a lot of room to expand executive power this early in the game, even if the Bill of Rights passed two years ago.”

“We could just go there and see if anyone starts shooting at us,” Flynn suggests. 

They look at him like he’s nuts and Rufus’ jaw drops a little, but honestly it’s typical Flynn, and the ensuing silence isn’t broken by any objections besides the obvious one. 

“I would strongly prefer not to get shot again,” Rufus says.

“Same here, believe me, but we have no clue what Rittenhouse’s play is, so drawing them out is the best solution,” Flynn says. “Unless we want to call it and go home.” For once he’s sincere, offering a true alternative to a reckless plan. 

There’s another thoughtful silence, and then: “Challenge accepted,” Wyatt says.

Oh no. “It’s not a challenge.” 

“We’ll see about that.” 

“Wyatt,” Lucy protests. 

“I’d never actually let you get shot,” Flynn tells her. 

Wyatt crosses his arms and leans back, satisfied. “Luce, we’ll be careful. Yes, there are minor details to work out, but I’d rather not leave any sleepers here if I can help it. If you think the president’s house is the most likely target, we’ll try there and then go home no matter what, how about that?” He looks to Flynn, who gives a shrug that clearly says why not, and to Rufus, whose face says that this is a terrible idea he already regrets, but whose mouth remains shut. 

“No heroics,” Lucy says, holding up a hand to forestall any opposition. “You may be Delta Force, but we’re not. We leave if there’s even a hint of an ambush. And try not to kill anyone right off the bat. They might have information on our mystery addresses. I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.” 

“You run headlong into danger all the time,” Flynn says mildly. 

“But I have yet to deliberately use myself as bait,” she says equally mildly, eyebrow raised. 

“Point,” he concedes. 

The sound of the rain stops as suddenly as it started, and Wyatt gets to his feet. “Perfect timing. Let’s turn in, and we can leave bright and early tomorrow morning.” 

“One last thing,” Lucy says as they stand. “The president’s mansion? We’ve been there before. It was Benedict Arnold’s house.” 

“Awesome,” Rufus says, sighing the sigh of a man who has been snatched from the jaws of death only to revisit unpleasant memories while posing as a house slave. 

“Yep,” Lucy replies. She gives him a quick hug. “Goodnight, guys.” 

“Night,” they say in unison. 

Lucy and Flynn retire to the bedroom, lighting the candles on the nightstand before closing the door behind them. They turn to each other, reorienting in this strange place, in this strange time. He takes her face gently between his hands and bends to touch his forehead to hers. Her fingers come up to brush his cheek, and they stand just like that, eyes closed, shedding the fear and strain of the day until it’s just them breathing quietly together. He waits until the tension in her shoulders eases, then kisses her softly, unhurriedly. They perform this ritual almost every night, but tonight he’s thorough, slow and sweet. It’s the tenderest kiss she’s ever received. 

She closes the space between them, looping her arms around his neck and opening to him, but there’s no intent. She just wants to give him everything she feels, everything she’ll ever feel, enough to last him this life and the next in every timeline they travel. He wraps one arm around her waist and slides his other hand into her hair, tightening his hold and deepening the kiss in response. She gentles him before things can get away from them, and his hand catches the flower in her hair as he releases her. 

Lucy untangles it and studies it in the candlelight. A small white stem opens into six elegant pink petals, precious and bright like a miniature lily. 

“Autumn crocus,” Flynn says. “My grandmother used to grow them. Perennial, beautiful and deadly. Sometimes referred to as ‘naked lady.’” He grins cheekily, a sight nearly unseen on the spectrum of Garcia Flynn expressions.

Lucy blows out an amused breath and files away the memory, sets the blossom on the nightstand. They undress, per his suggestion, and Flynn helps unlace her stays before climbing into bed. She tucks herself into his side and lays her head on his chest so she can hear his heart.

“Thank you,” she says. “I wish I could keep it. Press it and bring it back with us.”

“When this is over, I’ll plant you a thousand of them,” he replies.

“Garcia,” she says, because he likes to hear it out loud. She says it again just to feel the word in her mouth. “Garcia.”

“Lucy,” he answers reverently. 

She kisses him goodnight, feels him smile against her lips.

“Sweet dreams till morning,” he murmurs, and they both drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I just wanted Flynn to pick Lucy some vegetables and look what happened


	2. Chapter 2

Lucy wakes just after sunrise to an empty bed and the decadent smell of hash browns already filling the house. She pulls on her stays and petticoat and stumbles sleepily into the kitchen to find Flynn fully awake and frying potatoes, humming quietly to himself. There are about a dozen speckled eggs of various sizes lined up on the table waiting their turn. 

“Hi,” Lucy says, crossing to him and the warmth of the fire. She leans against his arm, pressing her face into his shoulder. 

“Good morning, _draga._ ” He kisses the top of her head and flips the potatoes, which are a flawless golden brown. Upon closer inspection, they look more like fritters with pieces of diced onion, held together by a batter of eggs, water, and some flour he probably also borrowed from the cellar. Unbelievable.

“You’re making the rest of us look bad,” she says, pulling him down for a real kiss. 

Flynn flushes a tiny bit at that and waves his spatula at the front door. “I found the family’s laying hens under the porch, helped myself to the eggs. Oh, and the tea in the cellar. There’s a cup for you on the table.”

“Thank you,” Lucy says. She should stop being surprised at his thoughtfulness, but then she finds a new autumn crocus next to her cup. God, this man. The door is propped open, letting the morning in, so she steps out onto the porch barefoot with tea in hand. 

Day has dawned cold and clear. The sky is pale blue without a hint of yesterday’s storm, though fallen leaves plaster the front steps and it smells like fresh dirt after a good rain. In the light, Lucy sees the garden for a sizeable homestead. Acres of gorgeous, dew-covered plants in every shade of green grow exuberantly without anyone here to tame them, tangling to form a jungle of vegetables and weeds. Beans climb up cornstalk trellises and fat orange pumpkins swell on their vines. Songbirds sing the morning chorus from the branches of a small orchard, and sleek black chickens run amok, clucking and pecking at the muddy ground. Even the air’s turned, bracing and crisp on this first day of fall. Everything is ordinary, extravagant, alive. 

Lucy pulls in a deep breath and lets it fill her lungs, lets herself be caught up in it, alight with an elemental love for this garden and the universe that created it. She can’t open her eyes wide enough, can’t breathe deeply enough, can’t touch or taste or smile widely enough to adequately capture this rich and vibrant realm. 

Wyatt comes soundlessly to join her on the porch, scruffier than usual, dressed and ready to face the day. He pauses beside her to take in the new world. 

“Look, Wyatt,” Lucy says quietly, memorizing it all for when they have to go back to the bunker, for the dark days surely ahead. Look how beautiful, she wants to say. Look how intricate. Look at the stripes embroidered on the back of the honeybee; watch her dipping into a squash blossom and emerging blurred with pollen. 

“I see it,” he says, a little sadly. He knows they can’t stay. “Lucy, breakfast is ready.”

She nods, and they go inside just as Rufus emerges from the parlor. “Morning guys,” he says, dumbfounded at the spread on the table. 

“Vegetable Wizard,” he greets Flynn formally, and turns to Lucy. “You should keep this one.”

Lucy blushes hotly and sits. Flynn just shakes his head in disbelief. “If I’d known that making potatoes was all it took to win you over, I would have done this a long time ago.”

Rufus shrugs. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” he quips around a giant bite of fritter, and they all dig in. Depending on how their visit to the president’s mansion goes, it might be a while until their next meal. 

They clean and pack up, putting out the fire and doing their best to leave the house the way they found it. Wyatt even splits a few logs to replace the firewood they used and then some. No one’s suffered a major trauma or been bitten by a mosquito yet, so they’re calling the first twenty-four hours a solid win. 

The walk to Philadelphia is unbearably lovely in contrast to the unpleasantness that almost certainly awaits them. The weather is so nice and the fields are so peaceful and they don’t pass a single other soul. It’s early yet, but no one has tried to kill them all day, and Lucy is weaving some sort of leafy crown as Wyatt hands her long-stemmed flowers and oats. 

As they near the city, she insists they have a think about the game plan, since she already vetoed walking straight in. Wyatt grumbles, and truth is they’ve gone into plenty of missions at a disadvantage, but they’ve never had to take out a still-sleeping sleeper who isn’t causing any trouble or drawing any attention. Wyatt and Flynn throw out a few ideas about reconnaissance and trying to figure out who’s been left to staff the mansion or if someone recently started working there, but the place is three and a half stories with additions for bathhouses and servants’ quarters. They’d be on surveillance all week. Rufus correctly states the core of the problem, that the sleeper will recognize them before they can identify him or her, and in the span of that lag time the team will be dead. Which he would like to avoid. 

This leads Lucy to a stroke of genius. “What if we don’t show our faces at all?”

“What, and call in a friend to do our dirty work?” Flynn asks with a touch of sarcasm.

“Exactly,” Lucy says. “I knew you’d catch on.”

“Um,” Rufus raises his hand. “We have zero friends here. We have negative friends. We have enemies.”

“Oh ye, of little faith.”

“Abandon all hope.”

“Not the right book.” 

“Oh I’m sorry, are you saying this isn’t a special circle of hell?”

 

They end up paying a boy named Jackson a quarter up front to go into the mansion and say he has a message for Lucy Preston from James Madison. Lucy’s hesitant to put a child at risk, she was thinking of hiring an adult, but Wyatt convinces her that it’s better this way. The fake message is for Lucy, not from her, so the boy can claim ignorance, it’s not good form to kill a congressman’s messenger, and the sleeper will hopefully be disinclined to hurt a child anyway. Wyatt explains to Jackson that it could be dangerous, but the boy is up for an adventure. They tell him to take his time and talk to as many people as he can, and to report back if someone shows interest. There’s a dollar in it for him if he completes his task. 

“This is like in National Treasure,” Rufus says gleefully. 

They leave him to wait for Jackson.

“Guys, no, no,” he protests. “Black people should never loiter anywhere at any point in American history ever.” 

“Noted,” Flynn says apologetically. “But it’s better than being caught sneaking around in the woods behind the president’s house, which is where we’re going.”

“Ah, then I’d definitely be murdered. Fine, just go. Get out of here.”

Wyatt, Flynn, and Lucy and split up to circle the property from a relatively safe distance, because they might as well do a little recon instead of going in totally blind. They meet on the other side of the property and keep watch for about an hour, and things are quiet as expected. A few servants come and go between buildings and a groundskeeper works on the lawn. The only moment of true peril is when Wyatt slaps Flynn on the neck, and Flynn almost socks him before Wyatt can yell “Mosquito! It was a mosquito!” Flynn glares and Wyatt cringes, but he presents the hand with a dead mosquito smeared across it. “See?”

A little while later, Jackson exits from the front door and strolls back to where Rufus is waiting. The boy pulls himself up to his full height, all of four and a half feet, and makes his report. “There’s a man with a blue uniform and fancy shoes who asked me lots of questions about Lucy. He wasn’t wearing a wig, but he doesn’t have any hair, and he talked funny.”

“He had an accent?” Rufus asks. “Where in the house was he?” 

“The president’s office! He was writing a letter, I think.”

“Okay, Jackson, well done. Was there anything else you noticed?” Jackson shakes his head, and Rufus hands him the money. “Thanks, kid. Don’t spend that all at once.” The boy lights up and is already running off when Lucy and the others return.

“Anything?” Wyatt asks. 

“Bald dude in the president’s office is our guy,” Rufus says. “Sure didn’t waste any time making himself at home.”

Flynn takes out his gun and pulls the slide back with a click. “Let’s go.”

 

Lucy and Flynn lead their little procession since Wyatt and Rufus are still in servants’ clothes. Lucy tells the guard who opens the door that they have a very important message from Martha Washington, and to take them to whoever is overseeing the house in her absence. The guard leads them straight to the president’s office, but it’s empty when they arrive. He has them wait there while he fetches a Mr. Smith.

“Matrix fan or just unimaginative?” Rufus says. Flynn and Wyatt go in to clear the room, guns drawn, and Rufus and Lucy hover just inside the doorway. 

Before they can get into position, the sleeper walks in right behind Lucy. She whirls around with a gasp, and Mr. Smith’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “What the-” 

“Lucy!” Flynn yells.

Smith pulls a knife from his belt and lunges for Lucy. He must have some sense of self-preservation, though, because he notices the two semi-automatic pistols now pointing at him and keeps the knife at her neck instead of killing her on the spot. It’s an amateur hold, but the knife is very sharp, and it occurs to Lucy that she really has to stop being taken hostage. While the sleeper is ordering the others to stand down, Lucy shifts around, adjusting her grip on the sleeper’s knife arm. She makes eye contact with Flynn, and he nods. 

She tightens her grasp, hooks her right leg around his knee, and throws her weight downward to break Smith’s hold. Caught off guard, he stumbles, and Lucy rears up, the back of her head hitting his nose with a sickening crunch. She steps quickly to the side, twisting his arm until she can grab the knife out of his meaty hand and simultaneously kicks him in the knee. The second she’s out of the way, Flynn and Wyatt both take the shot, and Smith goes down.

Flynn runs to her, frantic, Rufus shouts congratulations on leveling up in badassery, and they’re almost out the door with Wyatt covering their exit when a second sleeper rushes in, modern Glock drawn. Flynn practically tackles Lucy to the ground as he overturns a desk to use as a shield, and Rufus and Wyatt dive for cover behind the cabinets on the far side of the room. 

The sleeper ducks back out the doorway, only looking in to aim and shoot at the desk. Wyatt returns fire since he knows Flynn won’t want to draw more attention to Lucy, but they can’t risk the sleeper just running off. Wyatt fires two rounds out the door, across the hall, and into a statue of Lady Justice, which explodes into shrapnel and draws a cry from the sleeper.

It must be a bad injury, because the sleeper bursts in bleeding and yelling and shooting like a kamikaze pilot, advancing on Wyatt’s cabinet in a rage. Flynn shoots him from behind the desk. 

Everything goes quiet, except the ringing in their ears. They stand and survey the wreckage of George Washington’s office. His fine mahogany desk, already damaged from being toppled, is riddled with bullet holes. The drawers have all crashed out onto the ground, spilling their contents, and an open inkpot is leaking onto the rug. The cabinets are splintered beyond repair, two windows are shattered, there’s a lantern that will never recover, and there’s even a hole in the portrait of his grandchildren. 

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” Rufus says.

“Time to go,” Wyatt decides. 

They grab the modern guns and hightail it out of the mansion without any resistance. The servants clearly don’t get paid enough to run towards a firefight, and no more sleepers pop out of the shadows. 

 

Back out on the street, Wyatt forces them to slow down and walk casually. “Don’t run like you’ve just killed a guy in the White House. Could you possibly look more suspicious? Flynn, pull it together, man.”

Flynn is beside himself with what looks like a barely-suppressed combination of rage, self-loathing, and relief. He has a death-grip on Lucy, who calmly says, “No, the White House is still being built in D.C. and Flynn, darling, could you ease up a tiny bit?”

“Could you stop being taken hostage by Rittenhouse?” Flynn snaps. He immediately looks guilty and fractionally loosens his hold on her arm. “I’m sorry.”

Lucy sighs and slows them down so they’re a few paces behind the boys. “Garcia. It wasn’t your fault.” She gently pries him off her arm, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow instead. There, now he looks more like a gentleman escorting his wife and less like a giant having a breakdown. 

“It was my fault. It’s my _job_ to protect you. We never should have turned our backs to the door,” he says, voice rising in anger. 

Lucy gives his arm a squeeze, trying to get him to focus on her. This kind of panic is a little out of character for him, especially while on mission. “Hey. I’m fine. I was able to disarm that sleeper because you taught me how. We do all that training so I can learn to protect myself, you know that.”

Flynn doesn’t reply, tense and scanning their surroundings continuously, his face now set in that unreadable mask he wore so often in the early days of their acquaintance. 

“Garcia.” Lucy stops and pushes him into a wide alley between two houses. She tugs him around to face her and grabs both of his arms. “Look at me.” 

He stares stonily down at her for a long moment and then his face falls. He almost looks afraid of her, eyes dark with a grief he must not be able to get a handle on. 

Lucy’s startled but keeps looking him steadily in the eye, letting her face show her concern and love. “There you are. It’s okay.”

Flynn stands frozen for another moment, and then hauls her into his arms and tucks her head under his chin. He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a long sigh. Lucy feels his ribs expand and contract, hears his heart thumping, sure and strong. She speaks to the collar of his shirt, pushing her nose against his clavicle. “What’s the matter, hm? What’s really got you so shaken up all of a sudden?”

He hesitates. “I just-” he cuts himself off with a growl of frustration. “I love you. I love you and I know you can take care of yourself, Lucy, I know it. I know you know the risks. And I know you’re not Lorena.” His voice drops, ashamed. “But the fear feels the same as that night. That sleeper, he had a knife to your throat, and I couldn’t- and now I- god. Thank god you’re all right.”

He tightens his arms and Lucy burrows closer, slipping her arms inside his suit jacket and hugging him fiercely. 

“I’m just having a little trouble getting things back into their compartments,” Flynn says miserably. 

“Oh, Garcia.” Lucy leans back and looks at him with infinite understanding. She reaches up to cup his cheek, and he leans into her touch, eyes closing of their own accord. “Oh, love, I’d be more worried if this didn’t affect you at all.” 

“I’m compromised.”

“Then you fit right in with the rest of us.” She knows what to do now; the damaged goods conversation is one they’ve had before. She pulls him down so his forehead touches hers and she’s cradling his face with both hands. “You’re human,” she says firmly. “It’s one of your finest qualities. It’s why I keep you around. Together we make one almost completely functional adult person, so don’t start doubting yourself now. I need you.” She presses a kiss to one cheek and then the other, codependency be damned. “You hear me?”

He furrows his brow and nods. 

“Okay. Ready to keep going? We’re nearly home.”

Flynn nods again and gathers his composure with another deep breath. “Don’t jinx it,” he says, opening his eyes, which are still a little shiny. He lets her go but laces their fingers together, bringing her hand to his mouth for a kiss with a look so intensely grateful she almost tears up herself. They move out of the alley and onto the main road, hands clasped. When the sunshine hits them, he straightens and squints up at the sky, shaking off more of the melancholy. He looks over at her with a crooked smile as they start walking. “No more hostage situations, okay? My heart can’t handle it.”

Lucy smiles back, relieved. They’ll have to talk more about this, but right now it’s enough that he’s smiling again. “I’ll try my best. Though I do feel obliged to point out that you were the first person to take me hostage. Hindenburg, remember?” 

“How could I forget? I was using you as a human shield and Wyatt shot me anyways.” Flynn brightens. “More importantly, it was the first time you met me.” 

Hah. Lucy arches an eyebrow. “Wyatt had orders. And you were _using me as a human shield._ ”

“So it wasn’t my finest moment,” Flynn concedes, “but I like to think I’ve redeemed myself since then.”

“Yeah, sorry you got shot though.”

“At least it left a cool scar,” Flynn says, sarcasm returning in full force. 

Lucy giggles. “Makes a good story for the grandkids.” 

“Oh, sure, can’t wait to give them nightmares about all this,” Flynn drawls, but he is dangerously close to beaming.

“…let’s tell people we met at a bonfire,” Lucy says seriously, and Flynn can’t help the laugh that escapes. Lucy grins proudly at the delight plainly written on his face, and he slings an arm around Lucy’s shoulders and pulls her in for a smacking kiss, right in the middle of the street. 

“Can you guys save it for the bunker?” Rufus appears beside them out of nowhere. At Lucy’s blatantly astonished expression, he rolls his eyes and says, “I only wish I were a ninja. We were waiting here, but Wyatt got hungry. Flynn, you good?”

Flynn blinks, surprised, and nods. 

“Wyatt’s always hungry,” Lucy says. 

At that moment Wyatt walks up behind her and scoffs, indignant. “So ungrateful. See if I share any of this with you.” But he opens his paper bag like it’s a treasure chest, revealing four large lumpy pastries that smell like apple pie and heaven. “Spent the rest of our cash on Dutch apple dumplings,” he announces, handing one to Flynn. Wyatt ignores the even greater surprise on Flynn’s face and hands Lucy the next one. It’s still warm. 

 

They do their best to eat as they walk, seeing as they do actually need to make it back to the Lifeboat sometime today, but a puff pastry containing an entire apple with gooey cinnamon sauce cannot be consumed neatly. Even Flynn’s face is sticky and his jacket covered in crumbs, but it has now been almost thirty-two mission hours without anyone coming to grievous bodily harm, and the team is in a celebratory mood. They look around in vain for a place to wash their hands and faces before cheerfully giving up and using their clothes for napkins. 

There’s little reason for Rittenhouse to be here now that the sleepers are dead, so ironically, the team is temporarily safer in the outskirts of a fever-ridden eighteenth-century Philadelphia than at home in the present. Wyatt and Rufus are up ahead and taking full advantage of their respite, shouting and gesticulating wildly in what’s either an enthusiastic battle reenactment or a major medical emergency. Flynn has once again claimed Lucy's slightly sticky hand in his, and she can’t bring herself to mind that they slowly become glued together as he tells her a story about his grandmother teaching a four-year-old Garcia to select, clean, gut, and cook a fish for Sunday family meals. Affection wells up inside her chest, building into a joy so complete she can feel the pressure of it in every beat of her heart. It’s become excruciatingly clear that there’s no such thing as making a bargain with the universe, and Lucy’s mostly made her peace with that, but she’s not above sending a little prayer to the gods of closed time-like curves.

_Please, let me keep them._

Then Flynn is tugging her along to catch up with the boys, and she can see their patch of forest just over the next hill.

“Don’t touch anything, and we’ll wash up and do laundry when we get home,” Rufus says as the Lifeboat comes into view. “Oh my god, I sound like a soccer mom with a minivan.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Wyatt laughs. 

“I was,” Flynn says. 

“Just get in,” Rufus sighs. 

Lucy pauses to take one last look at the countryside. The trees around them are ablaze with red and orange leaves, and she thinks of this morning, of that first lungful of fresh air in the vibrant green garden. She thinks of Flynn and Wyatt and Rufus waiting in the Lifeboat, and the rest of the team waiting at home. _1793._ It’s an extraordinary life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more in the vein of loving the honeybee and the orange leaves, go work on a farm and then read the poem _Any Common Desolation_ by Ellen Bass. Then read _Fungus on Fallen Alder by Lookout Creek._ Then read _Relax._ Then read everything ever written by Ellen Bass, and let me know if you like it. Thank you all!


End file.
